


Down Once More

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, Doubles, Episode 101 Spoilers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, We're going on a feels trip kids buckle up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 00:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12899880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Upon exiting the tunnel, he was mildly surprised to see that he was, in fact, in his own basement. Or, at least a basement identical to his own, down to the photos. The only thing that was different… was the sound of his own voice drifting down the stairs. He had never dared to venture up them, to ask the stranger why their basements were connected, but found himself traveling to it many times over the course of the year.Cecil decided it was best to keep the alternate basement, ‘Basement 2’ as he had deemed it, one of his many secrets. There had to be somewhere he could be alone when he it felt as though the world was on fire.Yet, as all good things must, it eventually came to an end.





	Down Once More

The tunnel hadn’t been there when he had bought the house.

Actually, he couldn’t remember when he had moved in… it was safe to say it wasn’t there, right? He couldn’t remember a lot of his past, but he _did_ remember the first time he had discovered the pathway.

“Ceec, don’t you think you’re… I don’t know… over reacting?” Carlos had said.

“ _Overreacting?!_ ” Cecil cried, looking at Carlos with disbelief.

The scientist recoiled a bit, startled by his husband’s outburst. “It’s just that it’s _really_ not that important, pooh. All I asked was if you wanted to hang the painting above the couch or-”

“That disgrace is _not_ going to be displayed in my home, Carlos!” Cecil crossed his arms, glaring at the painting in question. It was actually a very lovely painting of Radon Canyon at night, but it was who it was _from_ that was the problem. “I will _not_ have anything from-” Cecil grit his teeth, “- _Steve Carlsberg-_ hanging in this house.”

Carlos frowned at him, and the radio host couldn’t help but wonder if that was a gleam of disappointment in his dark irises. “He gave us a gift, Cecil, and the best way to thank someone for a gift is to use it. Frankly it’s a very lovely painting,” He murmured, looking at it again. “Can we just put it up for now until we find something else? Then I’ll take it to my lab or something.”

His lover scoffed in disgust. “But it’s from _Steve_ , Carlos! It doesn’t deserve to be displayed _anywhere!_ ”

The scientist let out a frustrated puff of air. “What did he even do to you, Cecil? He’s your stepbrother. If anything, he always seems to have your best interest in mind. So, what, he’s a little annoying. Who isn’t?” Carlos looked at him and instantly regret his words, forgetting for a moment how sensitive his husband could be to comments (even if they weren’t necessarily about him). “I mean, not you, pooh. You’re great.”

His fingers tightened, gripping into his arm. Cecil looked away quickly, feeling emotions well up within him. Was that what Carlos thought about him? Annoying? Was he no better than _Steve?_

“No, no. I get it,” He responded flatly. “I can be annoying. Sorry. Just hang it up wherever you want.” His gaze flicked back to the painting, where his lip curled up slightly in disgust. “I don’t care.”

Carlos set it down and placed his hands on his hips. “Really Ceec? Now you’re going to be like that?”

“Be like what?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“No, I don’t,” He countered, not making eye contact with the scientist.

Carlos crossed his own arms now, staring hard at Cecil. “You’re upset and you’re being really flat with me. I wasn’t attacking you, babe, I was just saying that sometimes Steve isn’t as bad as you believe he is. He’s still a person.”

Cecil felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise suddenly. “Are you _defending him?!_ ” He stared at him in disbelief.

Silence. For several moments, his accusation was met with total silence from his husband. Carlos stood there, gaping and looking like he was trying to think of the ‘appropriate’ response.

“… All I’m saying is it’s a nice painting.”

That wasn’t the ‘appropriate’ response.

“Where are you going! Ceec, come back! It’s just a painting!”

Cecil’s feet thundered down the old wooden staircase, batting cobwebs out of his face as he descended into the basement. He could faintly hear Carlos’s protests from upstairs but ignored them. After such a heated argument, all the radio host wanted to do was be alone. Whenever he got emotional, he headed into the basement. Some people had their best thinking in the shower or during reeducation (later to be forgotten), but he found his best thoughts came to him when he was stewing on his negative emotions.

Or, perhaps, he _believed_ this was when he did his best thinking. Mental illness was a fickle being, always twisting and warping self-and-environmental awareness. Sometimes his thoughts were like an oil slick, breathing and twisting, manipulating anything that came close until it was unrecognizable. Other times, they were as clear as the void above, easy to comprehend and accept, yet acutely terrifying.

He had felt the draft against his ankles, occasionally blowing dust into the air. It was partially hidden behind a covered mirror that had come from his mother’s house. The tunnel was just big enough for the man, not tall and not short, to crouch through. If he tried to stand up, he found he would bump his head into the dirt ceiling. Like the ceiling, the floor was dirt that had been mixed into mud in several spots. Once, he had stepped into it and his leg and sank almost halfway. He avoided the puddles from thereon out.

Upon exiting the tunnel, he was mildly surprised to see that he was, in fact, in his own basement. Or, at least a basement _identical_ to his own, down to the photos. The only thing that was different… was the sound of his own voice drifting down the stairs. He had never dared to venture up them, to ask the stranger why their basements were connected, but found himself traveling to it many times over the course of the year.

Cecil decided it was best to keep the alternate basement, ‘Basement 2’ as he had deemed it, one of his many secrets. There had to be somewhere he could be alone when he it felt as though the world was on fire.

As time went on, Cecil utilized the space more and more frequently. He enjoyed having a private space to reflect and calm himself within. The stranger from upstairs never made himself known. Sometimes, Cecil could hear him arguing with someone, but he could never quite make out the words. Other times, he thought he could hear muffled crying. It wasn’t his place to intrude. He would just feel awkward and leave back to his own basement to give the owner his privacy.

Yet, as all good things must, it eventually came to an end.


End file.
